“You done good, boy.” Split nodded approval. “We best go scare them up.”
“Scare up who?” I gasped, holding my blood-imbrued shirt away from me. Suddenly revolted I snatched it off and stood shivering in the cold morning breeze.
“Horses, boy,” Red answered. “Them two rode horses.”
I had almost finished soaking the blood and its stink from my shirt when Split and Red returned with the ponies, a sturdy mustang and an Indian calico, which whites tend to disdain, although Split assured me they were good horseflesh. We distributed the loot among us. The Pipe Stem braves carried Indian trade rifles and forged tomahawks. One toted a spiked axe; the other, a Missouri war hatchet.